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memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: Dionysus

bacchanal

29 Wednesday Sep 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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bacchanal, debauchery, Dionysus, poem, Poetry, quietude, raving, sloth, sonnet

“You did not know me,” Dionysus said,

“when you should have,” and proceeded to fuck

things up. I get that. Gods of rage and dread

aren’t that welcome at the office potluck,

either. But, just once, perhaps, a mellow

bacchanal would be pleasing; a laid-back

debauch with odd friends. Sadly, those I know

do not know me that well. I’m a shy Zack.

I lisp, stutter. People make me nervous;

I like quietude and sloth … except when

eldritch horrors possess me, when I rain

fire and salt the earth after. That luscious

violence when I’m not me; so I must, then,

be you, raving, both bullet and bloodstain.

nipping

19 Sunday Jul 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Dionysus, ecstasy won't be our downfall, erotic poetry, more than just spilled ink, nipping, poem, shaman of strife, shaman of the bones, sonnet

First you scoffed at this. Ecstasy was dread
and hate. I know hate. I’m healing from rape.

I know what men hate. “Yoo’re nae godhead,
fool,”
you’d said. You’d just wanted to escape

white dudes’ egos. –– But healing comes with no
strings if you let go. You shake: neck to thighs.

Curing comes when you cum. “Make me flesh flow,”
you gasped, my teeth nipping your nape. Your eyes

glazed each time you pulled me in. I’ve traveled
queer realms to find this cure, though I’m still not

sure my soul’s peace is my birthright. I call
Dionysus father, though he’s troubled

by his bent son. Let me share what he taught,
love, so Ecstasy won’t be our downfall.

euripides’ bacchae [prologue]

21 Monday Oct 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in quote unquote

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Bacchae, bacchanal, Bacchus, Dionysus, drama, Euripides, new translation, play

[SCENE: Semele’s tomb outside the royal palace of Thebes. Dionysus, fey god of intoxication and beautiful boys, stands alone before the palace gates. He speaks directly to the audience.]

DIONYSUS

They called me a sissy so I destroyed them. I suppose, though, I am something of a mama’s boy. My grandfather, Old Man Cadmus, king when I was a child, made my mother’s tomb (this one here, overgrown with grapevines, I see) a quiet spot. I like grapevines. It’s a good place to return to. For that I might even be grateful. But … no.

Semele’s sisters, my aunts, have all behaved badly. They called Dionysus a pretender and a bastard and that angelic Hera didn’t trick my poor mother into killing herself. They claim that the bull she shamelessly fucked wasn’t Papa Zeus in disguise … that he didn’t then reveal himself to my mother as living fire, burning her alive with me still in her womb. They don’t understand how the gods work and because they weren’t immediately struck down by lightning (where’s the fun in that?) my aunts grew cocky.

Me? O I’ve been here and there. Sowing my wild goats in the Far East, teaching my Mysteries to charming infidels and barbarians out in Arabia and Asia. That’s when I heard they were mocking Dionysus back home. I love stories where hubris and chutzpah gets grossly punished. Especially now, on the day that I have returned to cursed Thebes where I was born, bringing with me derangement—divine and consuming—as punishment.

[Holds up his thyrsus, a long phallic-shaped ivy-covered spear]

Of course this looks like a penis. I shook my thyrsus and made the women of Lydia and Phrygia froth at the mouth and abandon their families to go dancing naked with their mothers and daughters and friends. Why? Because I can. I spread madness everywhere I go, and because my mother’s sisters thought calling me a sissy would be an insult, my dear aunties—Agave, Ino and Autonoe—are fucking more than Bacchic bulls up in the mountains these days.

Sinners must be taught their lesson. Cadmus, being old and wrinkly, pissed me off when he renounced the throne to Auntie Agave’s son, Pentheus. There’s nothing worse than a snotty-nosed prude afraid of his own cock but claiming to know what the gods want. What an odious little shit, Pentheus, who apparently is too stupid to fear divine wrath if the god in question lisps and prances through his city, which will be ironic, I suppose, since I’ve turned his supporters, the proper women of Thebes, into blood-lusting, finger-fucking Maenads … like the kids say these days: burn, patriarchy, burn.

[Enter Lucine, leader of the Bacchae cult, wearing a garland of flowers on her head. She is dressed in ritual deerskin and carries a small drum.]

DIONYSUS [cont.]

My beautiful savage, Lucine, named after the moon. You have followed me out of the kingdoms of Ararat and Artaxiad. We have conquered barbarian lands together. Now I shall go to the valley below Mount Cithaeron and rejoin my Bacchae. Beat your drum outside Pentheus’ palace. Let all the eyes in this damn city see you dance.

doldrums

27 Friday Sep 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Bacchae, bone corset, Dionysus, doldrums, poem, Poetry, sonnet

I saw him first among the early hills.
It was arousal that drew me. I heard

voices among the brambles and the chills
I felt just then were odd. It’s been rumored

that the lovelorn can love him. He comes, spun
flakes of winter in hues of gray. — He cums

in ways I do not these days. I’d loved one
who loved others. My long sexless doldrums

were a drag but in the hills I heard song
that roused in me what many a Bacchae

before felt, I’m sure. I won’t tell you what
the two of us did, you’ve proven me wrong

to say what a fey goat-god calls foreplay
with a forlorn queen in a bone corset.

][][

NOTES:
The Bacchae were the female priestesses of the Greek god Dionysus. It is from that word we get Bacchanalia, or holy orgy. The doldrums are an old nautical term, now applied to any period of time involving stagnation and depression.

who heard you say no

04 Monday Nov 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Feminism, Poetry, sonnet

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Baron Samedi, Dionysus, Don Juan, double standards, erotic, feminism, Freyja, poem, Poetry, Rati, sonnet, Venus

Baron Samedi, Dionysus, Don Juan,
these be the masks that men can slip into.

Every culture has its sex gods that spawn
the myth of great sex. What that means to you

ain’t my concern. Tell me, who do women
in your land have when lust’s fire burns within?

Venus? Rati? Freyja? Fuck that Virgin
and Whore dogma. You gonna say that Sin

be just another name for girl pleasures?
Absurd. A bee won’t stop being a bee

because you ignored it, lied about it,
tried to shame it, stupid. I love lovers

who break the rules, who laugh, who aren’t sorry,
who heard you say no and don’t give a shit.

][][

a note:

Most of the time when a writer name drops (especially names 90% of the rest of us haven’t heard of) or uses foreign words or phrases without translating them I end up getting turned off as a reader. Being well read shouldn’t be a license to be conceited. I say that because I use six names that probably most people haven’t heard of before. They are all love gods and goddesses from around the world. At first I tried to leave them out but the whole point of the poem was to show that there are more female erotic archetypes than what we have here in this modern world, which still teaches girls sex is bad, celibacy is good and anyone who actually likes pleasure must be a whore (unless you’re a man … men are never criticized for liking pleasure).

In Voodoo Baron Samedi is loa (spirit) of the dead, sex and resurrection.

In Greek myth Dionysus is the god of wine, ritual madness and homoerotic ecstasy.

Don Juan usually refers to a monster-long poem written by Lord Byron, but he based his story on old Spanish legends of the world’s greatest lover.

Venus is the Roman equivalent of the Greek goddess Aphrodite.

In Hindu mythology Rati the goddess of passion and lust.

Freyja, in Norse legend, is the goddess associated with love, magic, shamanism, sacrifice, war, death and sexuality.

dionysus suckling

28 Friday May 2010

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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blow job, breast milk, Dionysus, incest, sonnet

Because she fed me on her flock’s goat milk.
Because I watched her squeeze each mud splattered
teat dry. Because the winds lifted her silk
from her shoulders. Because I leaned forward
and cupped her breasts in child-like hands. Because
I felt the dazzlement of her nipples,
sudden gemstones. Because she did not pause
at her work, just smiled. Because my muscles
tightened, stiffened, hardened. Because I did
not love her. Because I did. Because my
hands, all vulture, caught a flame, my skin peeled
back when she daubed milk on my lips, then slid
fingers over my mouth, tummy, cock, thigh,
and so I burst in her mouth as she kneeled.

one hung bull

28 Friday May 2010

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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13, daughter, Dionysus, nightmare, sonnet, Zeus

“Myth says Dionysus was sown up in Zeus’ thigh
while Athena burst from his head.”

He lied. Today is your thirteenth birthday.
Today I’ll tell you who you are, Daughter
of the Thigh. Some say you were sea-born. They
claim they saw. But how could they? My nightmare
child, you are not mine. He was a liar.
He came in my sleep, in dream. He pulled you
out of me. Like so, sewed you up, an hour
of work, into his thigh. An old god, who
was one hung bull, this country girl’s lover.
He lied. It’s a lie to believe your birth.
Are you surprised to find out you’re a thigh
born-child? That I am neither your mother
or dead father? It all started with earth
and fire. He cut you out and made a lie.

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